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Benjamin Preston A V-8-equipped 1965 Rambler Classic is taken to the crusher at a scrap yard outside Denver.Expanding upon my previous rumination about today’s worthless cars becoming tomorrow’s relatively pricey classics, I had another experience involving a car that isn’t worth a whole lot that was dumped, whole, into a line of cars to be crushed at a scrap yard on the outskirts of Denver.
I was getting a set of used tires placed on the rear wheels of my brand-spanking-old 1980 Chevrolet pickup when a flatbed trailer arrived with a slightly sad-looking, but remarkably intact, 1965 Rambler Classic sedan. Naturally, I went over to investigate. It didn’t run. Part of the driver’s side upholstery was tattered. It had two flat tires, and the rear window was broken. But it wasn’t rusty. The interior was in great shape (although it needed a good scrubbing), and it was one of the rarer V-8 models.
Before getting any deeper into this, I must explain that at heart, I am one of those guys who, should it be feasible, would have a row of ratty they-could-be-nice-someday beaters parked beneath a stand of overgrown trees behind my house. That I live in an apartment building in Brooklyn is irrelevant. I come from Virginia. (You can take a man out of Virginia, but you can’t … well, you get the idea.)
Anxiety and regret gnawed my insides as I watched this perfectly good piece of machinery loaded onto a forklift and placed amid a pile of decrepit Caprice Classics, Ford vans and rusted-out Toyota trucks. I asked why, why for God’s sake they were casting it away. Apparently, the car’s owner had lost the title and lacked the energy to deal with the paper trail associated with getting a new one. Without really thinking about what I was saying, I heard myself offering $200 for the car. The forklift operator looked at the guy who was draining the fluids from the engine.
“Cuanto? Quinientos?”
“Five hundred’s too much,” I replied, saying over and over what a shame it was to let such a little gem go to waste. I briefly considered offering up $400 for a car that didn’t run and had no title. Someday, I reasoned, this relatively worthless car would be worth something. But first I’d have to put tires on it. And tow it back east. And get it running. And park it somewhere in Brooklyn where it wouldn’t get smashed, stolen or towed. And …
In the end, I realized the stupidity of such a purchase and watched helplessly as a piece of history succumbed to the ravages of reason and practicality. Years from now, when someone is selling a car like this for $50,000, I’ll be kicking myself for passing up such an opportunity. Think I’m kidding? In 1940, how many people thought a brand new Ford woodie station wagon, which sold for $950 (just under $16,000 in today’s dollars) then, would sell at an auction for almost $200,000 today? My guess would be not many. Even fewer 20 years later when surfers and Beatniks could pick them up for next to nothing.
It all comes down to who has the space, time and patience to hang onto cars through that long period of low value and little interest. Looking at it long-term, a car like that could be a good investment. But in day-to-day life, keeping one (or more) around borders on madness, and you run the risk of becoming, in your later years, one of those old guys who dies with dozens of decrepit wrecks hoarded in a weed-choked mess behind the garage.
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